Unravel
by crazy4vicodin
Summary: [MAJOR ANGST!] Chase struggles to comprehend the enigma that is House. Whoever said House was predictable must have been high. [SLASH of the HouseChase variety. Slight noncon. Features angsty!Chase and dark!House]
1. Chapter 1

Title: UnravelFandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: House/Chase  
Genre: Angst, Romance  
Warning: Homosexual themes, non-consensual relationship (sort of)  
Rating: NC-17 for safety

Disclaimer: The show _House, M.D. _and it's characters are not mine...they're unfortunately owned by David Shore & Co.

Unravel

Sometimes Chase wonders if he's like that guy in the movie Groundhog Day who kept waking up to the same thing every morning. Sounds realistic to Chase. Theories about stopping time aside, it's perfectly possible for him to feel just like that man. He's got a hectic, demanding job; people depend on him to survive; every day there's a new ambulance wailing or a new death blamed on Chase. Kind of monotone, really, if you forget about the myriads of small catastrophes that occur every hour at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. How could it ever be _monotone_? he thinks.

Exactly. It can't. Not with House around.

Chase doesn't want to think about House. It's all he seems to do lately. Normal, mundane things remind him of House--glass vials, the pharmacy, patients going into cardiac. Not to mention that when House is actually around Chase, it's infuriating and exhilarating all at once. He speculates that maybe this is what getting high is like; it's like falling and finding yourself all at once. He finds it almost tempting to drown himself in narcotics, but doesn't do it. Too afraid. Chase has a headache from all the thinking, and no matter how much cafeteria coffee he drinks, the pain won't go away. Neither will House. It's insane.

Or maybe Chase is the crazy one.

House is like a tapeworm, Chase muses, passing a hand over his tired eyes and chewing on the end of his pen. Yes, House is a frustrating, tenacious parasite. The man's presence insinuates itself everywhere, no matter if wanted or unwanted. House dissects whatever comes his way, coldly, calculatingly. He uses people without a second thought, leeching away individuality and independence. Around him the world slowly shrinks and loses color, becoming a reflection of his cynical attitude. People are his playthings--they're willing, coming into it, but coming out, they want to run away. House never lets them forget that he is always right, always stronger, always in charge. He observes and makes conclusions and then discards the empty husks of ideas, lives and diagnoses alike. House does it with dignity. He does it as if he's disinterested.

That's what draws Chase in, kicking and screaming, day by day.

He can't get House out of his mind. The tapping of cane against linoleum haunts his dreams. While Chase's conscience is breaking down his confidence, it almost sounds like House's angry, bitter, spite-filled words. Chase flinches when he hears the rattle of the pill bottle again, because he knows that if House ever asks him to write a prescription, he will. He can never say no to House. Is it possible to be addicted to a person?

Sometimes Chase thinks he hates House. For doing this to his life, tearing it apart like this, Chase isn't an experiment, not a differential, he has no right--Then House says something to Chase that makes his jaw drop and his cheeks flame, and for a second he sees the charming rogue behind the selfish bastard. It's a brief spark of something in House's eyes that makes him see the difference, but then it's gone. Chase wonders how much the pain and the Vicodin and the lies have changed House.

Eventually Chase has no compassion left for House. A well-placed comment there, a jibe here, a poke at Chase's pride right _there_. The man knows just where to pull so that Chase pushes back, and barely three hours into the day they are screaming at each other. The Australian accent makes Chase's words raw and unrecognizable when he's angry. Insults he doesn't really mean about House are shouted. _("Fuck you, you selfish son of a bitch!") _Chase looks haggard and ready to collapse when House finally leaves him alone, but the rage is still simmering under the surface. He is ready to snap, all over again. Grudgingly, he returns to the conference room. Foreman and Cameron are there in the aftermath of the fight, but Chase huddles in a corner with them even though he'd rather be left alone.

Shivering slightly, he returns to the comfort of crosswords. _("Oh, I'm selfish now? You're the one who sits on your ass all day doing crosswords! I at least save lives!")_ He can't even figure out the answers anymore. What's a nine-letter word for "helpless"? Foreman says "desperate," and Chase wants to throw up. He wants to rip the newspaper to shreds, tear the sedative drips out of his ICU patients and hear them groan in pain. The newspaper is tossed in the trash. Chase leaves the room. _You destroy lives too, House,_ he thinks. Dejected, he wanders aimlessly and winds up in House's office. The swivel-chair is empty; he doesn't want to sit, but he does anyway.

House stops by, looks at Chase and Chase looks back. The expression on House's face is dark and malicious. He steps into the room, pushes the door shut with the tip of his cane. The blinds flick closed, and he hobbles over to stand in front of his own desk. Chase doesn't move, just stares up at House as if daring him to do something. Flickering grey eyes meet cold, burning blue. All of House's being bears down on Chase, suffocating him. House's eyes swallow him, close around him; he's plummeting and he's scared. He feels trapped and House can see it.

"Poor little wombat drowning in his own misery?" House mocks cruelly, dry-swallowing two Vicodin without taking his eyes off Chase. The rough tone of voice jostles Chase back to reality. "Go sulk in a storeroom somewhere. I need my office."

Chase shakes his head and doesn't follow orders, not this time. "House." He says it quietly, hopelessly, more of an exhalation than a word. The glare of the blue eyes seems to intensify, as if to say _why are you not leaving? _but he doesn't back down. "What happens next? What happens to us next?" House laughs, a dry, humorless sound; he leans forward, resting his forearms on the desk. He's too close to Chase for comfort, invading all the rules of personal space ever invented. Chase squirms.

"Next?" House asks, incredulous. "There _is _no next. Nothing's changed." That bark of a laugh returns; House claws a hand through his hair. Harshly, he continues, "You still feel the same way about me as you've felt for months. You're completely wrapped around my finger." Chase's head is swimming. "But I'm not done with you yet, Chase. I plan picking you apart. I want to see what makes you tick. Want to see if I can make you lose the remaining wits in that pretty head of yours." He runs a callused thumb over Chase's jawline. His voice drops. "It'd be interesting, wouldn't it?"

Chase jerks away, claustrophobic, shoving at the table, at everything he can find, knocking the chair over and going with it. "Get _away _from me!" He sprawls on the floor, slowly gets up on hands and knees, pushes himself to his feet. House is laughing wickedly as he scrutinizes. Chase doesn't notice when everything around him suddenly starts to shatter, but he can't hold back anymore. "Leave me _alone_!" He sounds hysterical. "Stay _out _of my life!" Wants to get out. _Needs _to get out. Chase makes a break for the door, dizzy, disoriented, choking on air. House is making his blood melt. He's shaking, screaming. "I_ HATE _you, House! I HATE YOU! I ha--" The cane trips him before he can finish. No time to try to break the fall, except he's not falling. There's an arm around his waist, and House's hands on his shoulders, and House's breath on his neck. Too close. "Get off of me," Chase says, as calmly as he can. It doesn't sound calm by a long shot. He's breathless and it comes out closer to a whisper. "House, I don't--"

"You do. That's what all this comes down to, Chase. You want me." House's voice in his ear. Chase can feel the shape of the words forming in his brain as he hears them, but their meaning slips away. _You want...I want...what? _He's foggy. He feels drunk. Had House drugged him with something? Chase shakes his head numbly, almost loses his balance. Unrelenting hands seize his collar and slam him backwards against the glass wall. His head collides with hard surface. House steps closer and Chase sees stars.

"What do you want from me, House?" he asks again when a hand snakes up his side. Chase wrenches the pad of blank prescriptions out of his pocket. "If you want a script, okay. Okay. I'll write you one, yeah? The whole intimidation thing isn't necessary. Just--"

A kiss is not what he expects. Especially not one like this. It's intense and demanding and doesn't give Chase time to adjust. _Like House,_ he thinks, absently because he's trying so hard to breathe. House's stubble feels rough and foreign against his face. Chase lets House tilt his head back and slumps against the glass wall, feeling utterly humiliated. _House is twisted,_ his mind scorns. _Don't give in. _But then it dawns on Chase that he already has. He's trapped under House because of the cane cutting into his waist. And his tie is loose, and his lab coat is half-open, and he probably looks terrified, but he's not resisting. Chase tries to pass off the lack of protest on his own part as delayed reaction. The problem with that logic is that five minutes have probably already elapsed; Chase can't remember when he actually started kissing back, but now he's definitely involved and it's not one-sided anymore. In his head the mantra of "This is not normal, not right and not happening" keeps Chase at least somewhat detached. What he's doing now goes against everything he's ever been taught about right and wrong. How did he wind up here, cornered by this man, being violated and practically reciprocating? _Oh god, oh god, oh god. No._

"This. This is what I want." House's voice is scratchy. It takes Chase a few dazed seconds to realize it's over, and he takes in several lungfuls of oxygen gratefully. "And I'm not going to be nice about it, either," House continues. "I take what I want, when I want, without asking for it first."

Chase swallows. "I can't do this. I'll sue. You're my _boss_. You--you're not allowed--It's infringement of my rights. It's sexual harrassment. It's against the law..." His voice falters. "Let me go."

"Please. You don't have grounds to sue, Chase. You said no to me just once, and that was _before _I even touched you. Beyond that point you were probably as willing as it gets. Passerby would probably even assume we're consensual, what with the way you were clinging to me and moaning. Are you always such a whore with your men?" House drawls, earning a peeved glare. "If you quit now, your fellowship is easily replaceable and there are thousands of doctors out there just _dying_ to work for Gregory House."

Chase quakes with fury. _How dare he. _"Fuck you," he hisses, smashing a fist into House's face. The blow is solid, connecting with bones. He feels them break under the force, watches House reel away from him. The cane is knocked to the floor along with House, who falls heavily. As House reaches up a hand to touch his injured cheek, those eyes stare up at Chase reproachfully. "Fuck you," he says again. He kicks the cane out of House's reach and storms out of the office.

It's only when he's halfway to the ICU ward that Chase looks down at his hands and realizes they're covered in House's blood. Bile rises in his throat. He freezes the middle of the hallway, a headache starting behind his eyes. _No…_ The realization of what happened nearly blacks him out. Feeling feverish, Chase locks himself into an empty exam room and sits down on the eolls stool. He isn't consciously aware of crying, but half an hour later an entire box of tissues is gone. He sobs because he feels overwhelmed and confused and he doesn't know what to do. In the back of his mind he knows it's ridiculous for a man his age to cry, but he can't stop and frankly, barely cares. Nausea swells over him in waves and he hunches over the stainless steel sink in the corner, throwing up. The mental monologue continues, haunting him, sounding just like House. "_Are you always such a whore with your men?") _He is weak and huddled in a heap on the floor when Cameron finally finds him. Her eyes ask questions about the blood on Chase's sleeves, but she doesn't voice her worries aloud.

Cameron leads Chase back to the conference room. He takes the cup of steaming coffee from her blankly, not caring that the hot Styrofoam burns his fingertips. Foreman does try to ask questions, but Chase gives enough monosyllabic answers that the neurologist soon stops attempting. They leave him be, and the darkness outside grows more and more similar to the darkness inside Chase's mind.

Staring at the dregs in his cup, Chase wishes he were invisible. For a wistful split second, he wishes House didn't exist. Then he imagines a world without House. Cuddy would have no one to hound about clinic duty. Cameron would have no one to worry over. Foreman would have no one to match wits with. There would be no more sarcastic non sequiturs, no more distractions from the doldrums of work. Less lives saved; more unsolved cases. Chase realizes the hospital would fall apart without House's childish petulance, his infuriating charisma and yes, his daring willingness to take risks. Princeton-Plainsboro would crumble at the edges with House gone, but it's nothing compared to what happens when he's actually around.

Chase is already starting to break.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Unravel , Part 2Fandom: House, M.D.  
Pairing: House/Chase  
Rating: NC-17.  
Warnings: Cursing. Heavy allusions toward non-con, homosexual themes, alcoholism  
Disclaimer: _House, M.D. _is, sadly, owned by David Shore & Co. and not by me.

A/N: A few people wanted a sequel to Unravel. I was going to leave it a one-shot even though I did write a few more chapters for it…but since reviewers wanted more, here is Chapter 2. Hope you like! Apologies if it's convoluted, but that's sort of what I was going for.

Unravel: Chapter 2

It's late, but Chase is still at the hospital. He sits in the sterile nurse's station, staring unseeingly at an old patient file. At night the ICU is usually fairly stress-free---patients resting, just the quiet beep of machinery. For that Chase is grateful; he's not ready for the responsibility of saving lives just yet. Cameron walks by with a stack of House's mail and suggests that he go home. Chase does, because he can't stand the pity she radiates anymore. The messenger bag on his shoulder seems to drag him down as he walks toward the garage. He feels wide awake and dead tired at the same time. Someone puts a hand on his shoulder. Chase waits for the accompanying tap of a cane or a bitter comment, but it's only Foreman.

"Hey, man, House has been looking for you for hours," the neurologist says. There's a hint of sympathy in his voice. Chase shrugs him off and gives him a glare that clearly says _back off_. "I don't need to see House," he says tersely. Thankfully, Foreman gets the hint and hurries away.

_I don't need pity,_ he thinks, sinking into a seat on the PPTH night-shift bus. _I need to forget. _

Alcohol scares Chase. He's afraid of drinking, after what happened to his mother, after finding her passed out on the living room floor surrounded by caution tape. Chase takes a second look at the bottle of vodka in his hand before uncorking it and taking a swig. His throat burns; bright colors dance and swirl around the room. Hard liquor reminds him of House, and thinking of House makes the world spin. He remembers the merciless kiss and the cane cutting off his air and House's collar under his fingers as he tried to push him away. The sensation of being caged in comes back. Chase looks around at the impersonal walls of his apartment. It's overly small, suddenly, overly constricted. Another swallow, and another, coming more easily now than before. With each mouthful he grows dizzier, aware that his ears seem to be stuffed with cotton. He feels too warm even with the top buttons of his shirt undone. His cell phone shrills out, breaking heavy silence; irritated, Chase swats at the offensive object, knocks it to the floor. There it shatters and lies quiet.

The beeper goes off seconds later, its sound grating on Chase's nerves. He picks It up to turn it off, and thinks it says, "Hospital. Now. H," but dismisses the idea from his mind. He's much more relaxed now, his vision fuzzy and slightly darkened at the edges. The vodka announces itself with sporadic tingles up his spine. Those eyes, however, still haunt Chase—cold, predatory eyes boring into his own, If he concentrates, Chase almost imagines that House is there, in the room with him, silently questioning, mocking, analyzing.

He finds it disconcerting that House has taken enough possession of his mind to never leave him, wherever he goes. It's startling that House is omnipresent in his life, This Chase explains to himself in a rather diagnostic way, acknowledges it as one last fact before everything goes black.

The first thing Chase is conscious of is the pounding headache. It starts as a faint whine of pain behind his eyes and slowly intensifies to a dull roar. He is engulfed in agony. He can barely open his eyes, and when he does the sun streaming in from the windows disarms him. To Chase it seems as if all his bones are fused together as he tries to sit up. On the third attempt he succeeds and clutches the arm of the couch to keep from keeling over. Blinking a few times, Chase curses House, curses being a lightweight drinker, curses even owning vodka, curses life in general.

Finally ready to move some minutes later, Chase stumbles dizzily toward the bathroom and checks his watch on the way. 12:30 PM. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He briefly considers skipping work entirely before he remembers the people he'd endanger and decides against it. Chase steadies himself on the edge of the sink and stares blearily at his reflection in the mirror. He looks like hell, having not bothered with a shower and slept in office clothes. _More like, been comatose for a night, _he thinks wryly. The white striped shirt he'd worn yesterday is wrinkled, tie askew and creased. His eyes are bloodshot with dark bags underneath, face pale, normally perfect hair disheveled. He wishes for a split second that he had some of Cameron's concealer; then the stabbing pain in his head brings him back to reality. _Fuck_. Chase washes down two Advil with a mouthful of Listerine and does a haphazard job of splashing the sleep from his eyes.

Although he doesn't want coffee, or anything else to drink for that matter, he makes himself a cup of Nescafe and gulps it standing up in the kitchen. There are ten messages on his landline answering machine: two from Foreman stating brotherly concern, five from a worried-sick Cameron asking his whereabouts, and three sobering barrages from House that brazenly demanded his presence at work. Chase absentmindedly wonders why he hasn't received more calls from House than just three.

Reassembling his broken cellular simplifies this mystery. Sixteen messages from House, one of which is text. Chase listens to his voicemail with trepidation, half expecting to hear that he is going to be fired for not spending the night at PPTH. House repeatedly asks where he could possibly be, tone and invective growing progressively harsher. By the time the automated voice tells him his mailbox is empty, Chase is worn out. The text message remains, evidence of it blinking on the small glowing screen of his phone. And when Chase opens it, reading it once is enough to make his heart stop. The words imprint themselves into Chase's mind so that he whispers them to himself as he's dressing, as he's running to the morning-shift bus, as he's slipping and sliding through the garage.

"Current case dead in ICU 2 hrs. Get the fuck to work."

_It's abuse,_ he contemplates as he steps into the elevator and presses the button for House's floor three times in quick succession. _I shouldn't be taking this from him. I could just quit. I could just—_A few more people file in beside Chase and the soft whirring of cables breaks his train of thought. _–walk out. But I killed a patient,_ he reminds himself. The headache which had been previously assuaged comes back full force. _I was too busy getting wasted and feeling sorry for myself to give a damn. Just like mum. _He feels as if sledgehammers are pummeling his temples.

Memories resurface over the slight humming of the others in the elevator. Chase remembers coming home to find caution tape stretching from the front door to the living room, clusters of grim-faced officers taking notes on clipboards, the wail of sirens. He had memorized every gin-stained flower on the wallpaper of the hallway as he listened to the urgent whispers of paramedics crouched around a prone form he just couldn't catch a glimpse of. Chase recalls sitting in that infamous room where they tell you the bad news, a confused, scared high school senior waiting to know that mum was okay. It had been a hospital much like this one. He'd heard the nurses shouting "CLEAR!" from two doors away, and before the doctor had come in, Chase had been sure she didn't make it. He had also known—or convinced himself—that his mother's death was Dr. Eislyn's fault, that not enough had been done to help, that he himself needed—NEEDED—to become a doctor so he could remedy all these wrongs. The story he tells patients about wanting to be a doctor because of his bad tonsillectomy is a complete lie. This, this is the real reason. It had been hat feeling of complete helplessness, of drowning, of not knowing what to do next.

House makes Chase feel that way. He feels that way now. He—

"Ah. You finally see fit to show up." Chase jumps, notices the cane wedged between the elevator doors. The voice is unmistakably House's. Everyone else has already filed out, and the sign on the wall behind House that reads "Diagnostics" in bold black letters confirms where Chase is. Not in the past, anymore, no. Instead, utterly speechless in the face of Greg House yet again. _Fuck. _

"I—sorry—"

"I was just about to come by personally to rescue you from your self-pity. Been trying out your mommy's techniques of coping, haven't you? I hope the drink's been good to you," House remarks acidly as he steers Chase down the hall and into the alcove by the water fountain.

The hand on Chase's elbow burns him through his lab coat and his shirtsleeve. He tries to jerk away. "Not now, House. Please not now." His voice quivers; being around House throws him off, makes him irrational. _Begging already. I'm ridiculous. Pathetic, _Chase berates himself. As usual when it comes to granting reasonable requests, House ignores him and the feral smile on the man's face seems to only intensify. Chase's stiffens when he is fixed with an icy blue stare. "House! Are you bloody deaf? I said, not _now_." _Yeah. Hysterical comes off loads better. _

"I'll assume the liquor's been exceptionally good to you, since your priorities obviously favor getting plastered over actually doing your job," House drawls. "It's funny," he continues, sliding his hand slowly up Chase's arm to his shoulder, "how strongly alcoholism runs in the family—you act just like your mother with a twist of masculinity thrown in. I won't waste time mentioning how little masculinity there actually is…but my point stands." The fingertips at the nape of Chase's neck wind into his hair and tug cruelly. Chase jumps at the sudden shock of pain and narrows his eyes. "Too damn pretty for your own good, anyway," House mutters, close to Chase's ear.

House's words are meant to hurt; they do, no matter how much Chase wants to ignore him. It's impossible to ignore anything House says. His entire manner today goes beyond the usual facetious tirade and cuts to the bone. Determined to walk away from the confrontation he is sure will come, Chase takes a step toward the open hallway. House curls the impeding hand, vicelike, around Chase's bicep and hauls him roughly around.

His face is inches from Chase's, minty breath once again ghosting into the air between them. "Leaving so soon? Well, if you must." House's tone is taunting, cold. "We'll finish yesterday's _conversation _later. My office sound good?" Chase knows House is doing this on purpose—to intimidate—because everything he does is meant to intimidate. The meaning behind his words is clear: "_Meet me in my office at lunchtime so I can strip you of your dignity, do what I wish with you just like yesterday, because obviously you'll say yes. Everyone says yes to me, as with everything else. I'm just that good."_

Chase wants to be sick. How did he reach this point? How had he become House's prey, and why was House so bent on his humiliation? Why was this even happening to him? He's just a fellow, just here to finish his residency and get the hell out into the real world. _I never signed up to be antagonized by this man, used by this man,_ Chase thinks. _This selfish, twisted bastard of a man. _He doesn't want to think about what will go on in House's office, how far his boss will decide to go this time. The idea of being cornered like that again scares Chase out of his mind, but he's aware that "No" just isn't an option.

In his desperation, Chase wants to resort to blind violence, itches to punch House again. He knows he can. He knows House deserves it. He wants to shout _you never knew my mother_, scream at him _you're a manipulative son of a bitch,_ tear at House's hair and scratch at his eyes and shut him up once and for all. But then Chase notices the fading bruises on one side of House's face, the slight crookedness in his nose, the almost imperceptible wince when he tries to speak. Guilt makes Chase sick for a split second, stilling the fist clenched in his pocket. Repeatedly injuring a man who is already in pain isn't something Chase considers high on the "morally correct" list. _How can you pity him? _his mind protests, but he ignores it.

"Yeah. Fine," Chase whispers venomously and pushes past House to stride down the hall. No matter that he's almost running to get away. Self-image doesn't exist in House's world.

When he glances over his shoulder, House is still standing in the alcove, feigning casual by leaning on the water fountain. The dark smirk on House's face tells Chase this isn't a joke. It just confirms that yesterday wasn't a joke, either. He's scared to know just how far House is willing to go to get what he wants.

Chase feels another small part of himself crumble away. _You're winning, House, _he thinks. _I hope you're fucking happy._


End file.
